The Thing You Fear The Most
by kiwipixel77
Summary: Hawke survives the duel with the Arishok and frees the city from Qunari rule, but at a terrible price.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Ok, here is a new story for you all! It is most definitely not as angsty and sickening as my previous one (Death is Nothing at All). This one has real dialogue! *Gasp!* I know, right! **

**Anyways, I was browsing through the Dragon Age kink meme last night and I saw a prompt and I just couldn't not write it! **

**So basically Hawke gets impaled on the Arishok's huge-ass sword during their duel and is paralysed. How would Hawke/siblings/companions/Kirkwall react to a paralysed Champion? How would this affect the rest of the story?**

**Read on, and please review with any thoughts or criticism!**

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Hawke was getting tired.

He was lithely dancing around the large room, both daggers in hand, slashing and slicing at the thick armour and greyish skin of the very large and _extremely_ pissed-off Qunari warrior. His hands were sweating and blood-slicked and his weapons started slipping out of them. His legs were aching from constant dodging and rolling out of the way of the enormous sword and axe swinging towards his head and _really,_ he thought, _a sword _and_ an axe?_ He had been punched one too many times in the face and was certain he would have a double shiner tomorrow morning. His light armour was dented in too many places and started to feel heavy on his weakening body. And it was chaffing in the most _uncomfortable_ places.

And he started to slow down, too. He was receiving more and more injuries as the duel raged on, and he could already tell that his collarbone had been broken, but it was nothing Anders couldn't fix.

_Anders…_ his tired mind mused, and he dared to take a moment and let his eyes scan the large stone hall for the mage. He saw him there, by the staircase, along with all of his other friends. They had worried expressions on their faces. Except for Fenris. He looked bored. Which didn't surprise Hawke at all. And Isabela looked both worried and humiliated. _Which she should be._ If it wasn't for her and her stupid thieving pirating ways, he wouldn't be fighting the largest and most terrifying member of the Qun most had ever seen – the Arishok. Which was _exactly_ where he was right now. And exactly what he was failing at doing.

A large fist right to the gut wrenched him out of his reverie and sent him flying into a stone pillar. He fell against it with a bone-shattering clang and his vision blurred for a moment. He heard the gasps and murmurs of the crowd of nobles and Qunari watching the battle intensely.

_Ah, Hawke, what have you got yourself into?_

If he wasn't so stupid and reckless and stubborn, he would have refused the Arishok's request for a one-on-one duel and instead have given that damnable pirate over to them.

He sighed internally. No, he didn't really think that. No matter what that larcenous, witty, free-spirited, _sexy_ brigand did, he would always forgive her. They were too good of friends for him to ever turn her away.

They had spent too many sleepless nights on rooftops in Hightown up to no good, and numerous drunken Hanged Man evenings where she would win all his money and force him into an embarrassing bet. Varric had often commented that Hawke was a male version of Isabela, though perhaps more thoughtful and caring and with just a tad bit more morality. They were closer than Hawke had ever been to his siblings, and they knew the other better than themselves. They had an unspoken pact that they would never leave the other. And Hawke had thought she had shattered it when she left that note informing him that she was taking off with the tome he so desperately needed to appease the Arishok and the whole Qun army.

But she didn't. That wench had come back, and for _him_. He was almost flattered. And he suddenly remembered then exactly why he had accepted the dual.

He slowly rose to his feet, and he knew he was almost spent. He couldn't continue like this. It felt as though he would fall apart at the next hard blow. He had been dueling for _hours_. Well, it seemed like hours, though it was probably only a few minutes. He shook his head and stumbled a bit to the left.

"Ah ha ha, are you done yet, Hawke?" The Arishok spit at him with fire in his eyes. "I see you are weak. I knew as well."

The massive Qunari was breathing heavily and was twirling his colossal weapons in his hands, as if he was itching to run them through the man struggling to stand. And he probably was.

"I will kill you now, Hawke, and after that, I will take your friend and leave behind this pathetic excuse of a city to the vermin in the streets." Yep. He definitely was.

"Ah, yes, well, before you do that, do you mind giving me just a moment? I have a _massive_ headache." He knew now was not the most appropriate time for sarcasm, but in his defense, he really did have a headache. A pretty big one too. And he was pretty sure the Qunari gave it to him, so the least he could do before he skewered him like a pig was let him shake it off.

"No, Hawke. No more moments. I have spent the last three years in this slum waiting for the right moment, and it has arrived," the monster snarled. A nasty smile spread across his face as he stopped twirling his weapons and gripped them tightly.

The hall fell silent immediately and an almost palpable aura of fear and foreboding swept across the room, saturating the minds of all the present citizens of the city, and rendering them motionless as they finally realised.

Hawke was going to fail. He was going to die.

Hawke's companions must have realised that the end was close as well, for Aveline looked to be on the verge of tears, and Anders was clearly panicking. Merril was shaking, Sebastian was silently praying, and Varric's face was flat and emotionless. Even Fenris straightened up and looked slightly more interested, and _Maker, is Isabela crying? Never thought I'd see the day._

But he knew better. This wasn't the end. Not yet, anyway.

"Are you _sure_ we can't come to an agreement?" Hawke pleaded as the Arishok started to stride towards him slowly. "I mean, I know that, technically, one of us has to die, because this is a 'duel to the death' of sorts, but quite frankly I'd much rather keep my head. Wouldn't you say?" He rather disliked pleading for his life, but he was no fool, and knew when he was bested.

The Arishok ignored him and continued, his pace slowly quickening.

An idea dawned on him suddenly.

"Ah! Here's a thought. You've got what you came for, right? That big book of yours. How about you just take it and… leave and… whenever you get rested up in Par Vollen, you bring back the whole 'shok family and pay us all a visit! Even take the city, if you fancy."

Ok, so it wasn't really an idea. It was totally pathetic, actually. He was just stalling now, and he knew it. He wiped away some blood that was dripping from a fairly large cut on his cheek.

"I thought you were Basalit-an, Hawke. Of this I was wrong. You cower like the rest of the Dathrasi that plague this city. You are not worthy."

_Ouch, that cut deep. If I actually cared._

"Yes, well, um, you see-" Hawke started, but at that moment the Arishok broke out in a full run towards him, weapons pointed at his heart. He panicked for but a moment before his body instinctively rolled out of the way. He winced as he did so, and clutched at his broken collarbone when he returned to his feet. He whipped his head around just in time see and dodge another swing at his head. The enormous axe clanged into the stone floor with such force that it left a pretty good dent and sent small shards of rock flying into the air.

Hawke could feel the hatred and pure power roll off the beast in waves as the Arishok slammed his weapons into the ground where he had been crouched only seconds before again and again.

If he wasn't careful he might actually lose. And die.

He finally caught his footing and stood quickly, and managed a few lightning-quick slashes into the arm that was holding the axe. The Arishok roared in pain and dropped the weapon.

_Ouch, that cut deep,_ he mused as he watched the Qunari bend in pain and glare at his arm that immediately blossomed red.

A small smile managed to creep it's way across Hawke's face and he paused a moment and took some pride in the fact that he had managed to disarm the creature.

But almost before he could form a thought, the Arishok gazed up at him with such murderous passion in his dark eyes and thrust his remaining weapon arm toward the man.

Hawke had no chance. There was nothing he could have done. In the years since that fateful day, he would look back and question and wonder why it happened, why he never dodged, why it had to hit _the right spot_. He would blame himself, and he would blame Isabela, and he would blame the Maker. But the blame rested on no one. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He never really felt the massive sword enter his body. It was so sharp and so quick that there was never any time for the pain to register. But he did _hear_ it enter, and the sound of the cold steel sliding through his flesh, his gut, just above where his belly button resided, and through his spine, and out the other side, haunted him for the rest of his days. He never forgot the sickening crunch of his bones snapping.

The smile was wiped from his face.

His world paused for a moment, and he managed to gaze back into those terrifying eyes and down at the sword protruding from his body. His mind blanked completely, and the blood drained from his face. There was nothing in the world but him, the Qunari, and the sword.

And deep down inside him, in some nook of his being, something clicked into place. Something so far buried that he never even knew it was there. He couldn't describe it, because he didn't really know what it was. But whatever it was, it spread, burning and smoldering, from the deepest parts to the very tips of his fingers and toes and filled him with a sense of something. It was a power of sorts, so raw and pure that it forced his arms, paralysed by complete and utter shock and terror, to rise slowly and plunge the daggers he was holding into the chest of the Arishok, right to the hilt, right through the heart.

The arrogant expression of the Qunari was wiped from his face as quick as Hawke's was, and real fear entered his eyes. The warrior released his grip on his own sword. But before Hawke watched the warrior die, he saw something else flicker in the dark orbs. Acceptance. And perhaps a tinge of approval.

The power drained from Hawke in an instant, and he released his daggers as he watched the Arishok fall back so slowly to the floor and land with a thud.

He never realised or felt himself collapse to the floor shortly after.

But he was suddenly aware of the other beings in the hall around him. Some were gasping, some were crying, and others were yelling. He knew, though, that the hall was erupting in noise and chaos.

His vision was darkening and he felt the life leave his body, much in the same manner the power had entered it. He heard fractured pieces of dialogue through the thickening haze that was overtaking him.

"Hawke, no!"

"Ah, shit, Hawke!"

"Asit tal-eb."

"Hawke! Stay with me! Don't leave-"

He saw blurred shapes and colours surround him, and he felt hands touch his shoulders, his chest, his back, his face. He felt the warmth of a healing spell envelope his body, and he closed his eyes, unable to keep them open any more.

The last thing he remembered was thinking how mad his mother would be, if she was still alive.

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QUNARI PHRASES

Basalit-an: A non-Qunari worthy of respect

Dathrasi: A type of animal. Used as a derogatory term against indulgent individuals, comparable to the pig

Asit tal-eb: "The way things are meant to be", or "It is to be".


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello there! Thank you all for your faves, follows, and lovely reviews! I really appreciate the support!**

**So anyways, I believe this story will be a long one. I originally intended it to be much shorter, perhaps 15ish chapters, but I highly doubt it. So I guess you all are in for a novel! Hahahahaha! *starts sobbing*. I really don't have time to write that much, especially now since school is starting up, so please forgive me if updates are sporadic and chapters are shitty. Like this one.**

**This chapter sort of cuts off at a random point, but it was getting too long. So sorry about that.**

**And I caught two mistakes in my last chapter. I am a major grammar Nazi and mistakes irk me to no end. So if any one sees an error here, please PLEASE let me know. These things haunt my dreams at night.**

**CaptainRocket - Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**SOLDIER-MS - Thanks so much! And yes, I cannot seem to write a story without a character being a smartass. I really don't know why. Hope you enjoy this chapter! **

**Read on! And enjoy!**

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"Ah, _shit_, that hurt!"

Hawke felt the life stir inside of him like an old dragon waking from a thousand-year slumber. It grumbled and groaned, lifting it's head and stretching out it's stiff neck and wings. The joints creaked and it took a deep breath, filling it's unused lungs with fresh air for the first time in ages.

Well, that's what he felt like. He was terrible at analogies. Or metaphors. Or whatever.

The thick haze was lifting off of his body like morning fog being burnt up by the afternoon sun.

Yeah, he was really bad.

Be it as it may, Hawke's body was waking up.

His mind felt oddly blank and fuzzy, and he thought of nothing, except trying to decipher who had so_ rudely _awoken him from his content slumber.

Someone had yelled out in pain, it sounded like, and it had jarred him, and the wheels started turning in his mind, sluggishly starting up his body like an old machine.

Wow. He made a mental note to never try his hand at poetry.

Little pieces of sensory info came back to him slowly, quickly flitting in and out of his dazed mind, and he tried to piece them together like a puzzle. He could smell scented oil and dirt and an unfamiliar, sickly flowery smell. The air was damp and musty. He heard low murmurs of people on the streets and the shuffling of nearby feet. He knew he was laying down, and the mattress, or whatever it was, was not in the least bit comfortable.

He tried remembering where he was, and how he got here, but everything was still so fuzzy.

He wiggled his fingers to get the blood flowing through them, but his toes just _refused_ to move.

_Strange, _he mused, but quickly pushed the thought from his fatigued mind, as he suddenly noticed a weight on his chest.

It got gradually heavier as he became more and more awake and aware. It was not uncomfortable, though, and not restraining, more like a hand placed gently on a friend's shoulder than a harsh grip, and he soon recognised it as the feel of a weak healing aura. He felt it's comforting warmth encircling him, and sensed the small buzzing in the back of his mind that he knew it caused.

He had had this particular spell cast on him many times before, and some recess of his mind instantly recognised it as Anders' work. Something stirred inside him as he thought of his friend, and his exhausted mind clicked into a higher gear, working harder to awaken him.

He lay there for a little while. He was not counting the minutes that ticked by, and he could have been there for days for all he knew. In reality it was only a few passing moments. He thought of little, and concentrated only on waking, and the tightness of the healing spell. Thinking about anything else tired his already weary mind. He breathed in the scents of wherever he was. Nothing really made sense to him here, and more than once he thought he was dead, or at least trapped in the fade.

But at some point, a thought pierced his consciousness like a shard of glass. The spell was Anders' doing, he was sure of, but it had always been stronger. This one seemed thin, sort of stretched out. That could only mean two things.

That the mage producing it was a novice at the spell, which Anders most _definitely_ was not, or it was weakened to produce constant and sustaining results.

Life-sustaining.

His eyes flew open then, and he immediately regretted doing so. The room he was in was not bright, but his eyes were not used to being opened, and he squinted them shut quickly.

Exposing his weary mind to new information had really wheeled it into overdrive, and things began to make more sense.

Opening them much slower this time, he focused his view in the dull glow of some circular lamps hanging off the dirt-coloured walls. Lifting his head a bit, which took _much_ more effort than it should have, and looking around, the first thing he noticed was the room he was situated in was small, and had no windows.

And then he noticed a figure sitting with it's back to him, hunched over on a chair in the far left corner near a small table, obviously deeply engrossed in whatever it was doing.

Hawke noticed the feathery shoulder pads and gold trim of their clothing, and a wave of relief washed over him when he realised it was Anders.

And he gathered it was he who had stirred him from his deep rest.

He tried speaking, but his throat was dry from disuse, and nothing more than a small huff of air passed through his lips.

_Shit, how long have I been out? _

He swallowed and tried again, and managed a small, frail sentence.

"Anders, you've never been one for cursing," he teased, a tiny smile playing on his face.

Anders jerked and his head snapped up and over to Hawke at the mention of his name.

The mage looked _horrible_. Terrible. Like he hadn't slept or bathed or even changed clothes in a month. His eyes had dark circles around them, his face was sallow and gaunt, and his jaw was tense. But nothing shocked Hawke more than what he saw in his friend's eyes.

They were filled to the brim with concern and stress beyond his years, and they penetrated his own soft and tired eyes right to the core, so much so that Hawke could almost feel his immense unease himself. His smiled quickly faded.

The mage straightened himself in his chair and Hawke could easily tell that he struggled to put on a calm mask. He gave a thin smile, one that didn't reach his eyes, and laid his hands flat on his thighs.

"Hawke. I'm glad to see you up," he said with fake cheerfulness.

"What happened, Anders?" Hawke blurted out. It was the first thing that came to his mind. Said man's smile faltered, and worry flashed over his face.

"Why were you cursing?" he quickly added. He didn't really care to know the answer. He just didn't like the way Anders was acting. If he was being truthful, the mage was scaring him a bit. He was never like this.

The other man's small smile returned, along with relief and a bit of real amusement. Just a bit, though.

"I was just about to leave when I ran my toe into the corner of the table. Hurt like a bugger, too. This room is much too small."

Hawke gave a slight chuckle, and as he did so, his collarbone ached. He reached up to it slowly and with effort, and rubbed it absentmindedly. His joints creaked like old leather from disuse.

"Yes, about that. Care to enlighten me on my whereabouts?" he asked. He didn't really know what he was saying, or why, but it was something to go on.

Anders stood abruptly and sidled over to the edge of Hawke's cot.

"Here, let me take a look at it." He ignored the question and gingerly touched at his exposed shoulder. Hawke wasn't wearing a shirt, and he had no idea if he had any pants on.

The healer's soft hands fluttered lightly over his skin, gently poking and prodding. The area was sore, but it caused him no real pain. Hawke let Anders fidget over him, but gazed at him with an expectant expression. The mage noticed, and sighed.

"You're in my clinic, Hawke. You… had an accident. Were injured. You're just healing in here for a while."

There was something wrong in his friend's tone. Anders was never a good liar, and Hawke always knew when the mage was deceiving him.

"Oh. Right."

Anders, realising he could stall and fuss over his friend's shoulder no longer, backed away from the injured man and stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do next. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but hesitated, and turned around, taking a few steps towards the small table.

The table, Hawke just realised, had an assortment of flasks of all sizes filled with a variety of different coloured liquids. There was also a pile of fresh plants, some with small yellow flowers, others just the large tubers, but most were unimportant-looking weeds. Well, not weeds, of course, but Hawke couldn't tell the difference between a rose and a carrot if his life depended on it. He noticed a small pestle and mortar, a few bowls, and some tattered sheets of paper, along with one massive old and extremely mundane-looking tome. It looked like the workplace of an obsessed potions master.

He watched in silence as Anders stood over the table, flipping through a few pages of the book, pretending to read. The man's eyes never scanned the pages, though. Hawke knew he was keeping something from him. He was good at reading people.

He took this opportunity to try and shake the grogginess that still clung to him. He was having trouble remembering anything past fighting that particularly large group of Qunari warriors in some street in Hightown. Everything beyond that point seemed hazy, and he felt as if any attempt to probe further was received by a harsh push back, somewhere deep in his mind, by some unknown force. It rather irritated him.

_Did I hit my head or something?_

Exhausted by the mental effort, he gave up with an exasperated sigh. Maybe he could get Anders to tell him.

"What's with all the plants? Taken up gardening, have we?"

Anders turned to him and his expression hardened.

"Some of your injuries were extensive. They required more than just healing spells. How are you feeling, by the way? I don't think I asked you that," he added hastily, flustered and embarrassed by the fact he hadn't asked earlier.

"Alright, I guess. My shoulder's a bit sore," Hawke started. He lifted his hand to his face and felt around. There was the ghost of a cut on his left cheek, and he noticed many faint scars along his arms and chest that were new to him. They had healed quite well, but the usual short stubble on his face was longer than normal. Maybe a week's worth of growth.

_Maker damned. A week? What the hell happened? _

"You're a good healer, Anders. Nothing else really hurts."

His friend smiled at the compliment and moved towards the small fireplace on the right side of the room.

Pretending to examine a new scar on the back of his hand, Hawke asked nonchalantly "So how bad was my shoulder? I mean, it must have been bad if even _you're_ magic wasn't enough."

See, Hawke was never good at being straightforward. He tended to dance around what he really wanted to say. It wasn't his fault, really. It had annoyed Aveline to no end, and no one got a rise out of Fenris quite like Hawke did when he felt like it. It was his way of getting what he wanted out of someone without actually _doing_ anything, and being able to pass as an innocent if something went wrong. It was an excellent way to feel no guilt as well. _If you didn't outright do it, you couldn't get in trouble for it._

So now, when he asked Anders about his shoulder, and his mass of plants, he didn't in the least think that it was his worst injury. He was not one to flat-out demand an answer. He wanted the mage to tell him himself. Of course he was curious, and he desperately desired to know what terrible event had transpired that had caused him to be bed-ridden for a week and for the best healer in the city to resort to other measures of healing him. _Of course_ he did. But he was a patient man, and had had twenty-five years experience of darting around in his speech. He could afford to be indirect. And he knew how to play people like a fiddle.

And Anders knew exactly how Hawke worked. When he played with words and danced around like this, the mage normally responded with sarcasm, or got right to the point and told his friend exactly what he was fishing for. It peeved him at times, too, but it was just part of who Hawke was, and he had accepted it.

But today, right now, he didn't have the heart nor the courage to get to the point. He was silently thankful for Hawke's roundabout ways, and decided to entertain the man.

He grabbed a large spoon from the table and stirred some unknown liquid in a small pot over the fireplace. After a moment, he tapped the spoon against the rim of the pot and looked over to his friend.

"It _was_ pretty bad, Hawke. You fractured your collarbone in two places. Here and here," he answered, and pointed to two spots on his own chest area to demonstrate where the breaks had occurred.

"They weren't clean breaks, and I had to manually reposition them before I could use any magic. Or poultices. There was a lot of bruising as well."

He stirred the pot again for a moment, and Hawke contemplated this new information.

He couldn't remember breaking anything.

He still could not recall a single thing past fighting the Qunari group. That odd force remained, preventing him from probing any further. He was becoming increasingly irritated as time went by. He had nearly regained full consciousness, however, which he was most grateful for. He did not like floundering about without a clue. Or a working brain.

When Hawke didn't respond, Anders spoke up.

"I made some soup for you here, if you're hungry. It's lamb. Your favourite." He really didn't know what else to say, and quite truthfully, he wished to prolong the inevitable unwanted conversations.

Hawke snapped out of his brooding at the mention of food. His stomach gave a huge growl, and he realised he probably hadn't eaten real food in a week. Or however long he had been here.

Anders had probably been force-feeding him those nasty 'nutrient potions' he sometimes used on sickly individuals who couldn't keep food down. Squatter Water, he liked to call it. Anders clearly disliked his friend's nickname of his potion which, he never failed to counter with an irritated glower, had indeed saved the lives of many an unwell patient. But it wasn't Hawke's fault that the nasty drink tasted like someone had filtered dirty sewer water through a squatter's smallclothes. He actually preferred the Hanged Man's rat-piss brew to the revolting health drink.

He had only tried it twice in his life. The first time was a year or so after he and Anders first met, and Hawke had contracted a nasty flu. He took one sip of the concoction and spit it out on the floor, Anders scolding him angrily because it took such a long time to make, and he had recently mopped.

The second time was only a few months ago, when Isabela had made him do it as a bet he lost one drunken night playing poker in Varric's suite. He actually drank the whole flask and proceeded to immediately throw up on the dwarf's shag rug. They _still_ hadn't let it go.

Hawke's stomach turned just at the thought of being fed that vile liquid, but his hunger got the best of him. He tried to lift himself up off the bed, but the mage stepped over to his side quickly and pushed his shoulders back down gently to the mattress.

"Not yet, Hawke. You're still pretty weak. Don't overdo it."

"Ha! Don't overdo it! If I listened to you more often, I wouldn't be half as interesting as I am. Or handsome. _Ruggedly _handsome. All these scars make me look badass, Anders," Hawke said with a sly grin and a glint in his eyes. He was _still _probing. The healer blushed slightly.

"I'm being serious, Hawke. You're not to try and sit up just yet. I can feed it to you if you'd like." Hawke's grin slid from his face, and Anders put one on his own. His friend _definitely_ did not like the idea of being hand-fed like a baby. He pulled the chair over from the table and placed it near the right side of the cot, sitting down.

"Ah, no, thank you. On second thought, I'm not really that hungry."

"Don't be foolish, Hawke. You need to eat something. You haven't had any real food in a while," Anders scolded. He ladled some of the soup into a small bowl.

"Really? I'm surprised I've survived this long without anything," he prodded.

The mage scooped a bit of the soup into a small spoon and reached over to Hawke, offering him some. He glowered dangerously at his friend.

Anyone who didn't know the rogue well would have been certain that their death would come swiftly in the next moment, if they were going by the murderous look he shot. But Anders was his friend, and he knew Hawke.

He had seen almost every emotion sweep across his face at some time or another. He was adept at covering them, however, and barely a second would pass before any rage, remorse, or grief would be rapidly replaced by a devious grin. But see them he did. It took a skilled eye to notice what Hawke was really feeling at any time. And Anders, being a wanted apostate and a healer, had learned to pay sharp attention to others and pick up on what their moods and motives were. Isabela, also a rogue, was particularly skilled in this regard. Anders suspected that was the reason she and Hawke were such good friends.

So if Hawke really did want to murder Anders at this moment, he most certainly would not have shot him such a vicious glare and given himself away.

It was odd, though, in a sense. One could never tell Hawke's mood, but one could tell exactly what Hawke was _not_ feeling. Like right now.

Anders smiled.

"Hawke, I never let you go without. You were taken care of." He pushed the spoon closer to the man's face, urging him to eat. Hawke snorted and pouted.

Anders almost laughed out loud at how his friend was behaving. He held the spoon there for a few moments, ochre eyes locked with Hawke's sapphire ones in a battle of wits and persistence.

Anders broke the silence.

"Come on. It's getting cold," he almost sing-songed. Hawke's scowl grew as Anders' smirk widened.

Hawke eventually gave in with a noticeably annoyed sigh and an overdramatic roll of his eyes. He opened his mouth slightly.

Anders actually laughed this time as he spooned the soup into his friend's mouth.

Hawke would not viciously murder him at this exact moment, but the mage dared not to say a word. He served his friend in silence until the bowl was empty.

"Good, wasn't it?" he asked, trying to cover up his amusement, but failing horribly.

Hawke merely grunted in approval.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Ahhh it is so late, or early I guess now, and I was half delirious while writing this chapter. It seems good to me now, but I'll probably read it over in the morning and be so embarrassed by it I'll have to redo half of it.**

**So yeah, this chapter is a bit weird and angsty, I guess. But it's the only one like it, so please bear with me! It starts to get interesting after this, I promise!**

**CaptainRocket: Thanks again for reviewing! Yes, it'll be terrible for him. We get a glimpse of what he's feeling and just how hard it will be in this chapter. So please enjoy!**

**Anyways, as always, read and enjoy! And don't forget to review with any thought/criticism!**

When Anders first met Hawke, he didn't like him one bit.

The air around him practically seethed with deceit and constructed falsehoods. The shorter, lighter, quick-footed man had given the mage an uneasy feeling, and his meandering ways of doing things, from talking to handling situations, had irked him for some time. Anders was not used to people behaving in such a way, and he really didn't know how to handle him. The rogue was flaky and unreliable, and he half-suspected him to turn him in to the Templars while his back was turned.

But after the incident with Karl at the chantry, Hawke had startled him. He was sympathetic, and kind, and invited him to join him and his friends at The Hanged Man for a few drinks. The man was truly good, somewhere inside, and Anders thought that maybe he had fashioned a mask for himself.

Maybe he did so to confuse and lose Athenril and her band of smugglers he used to work for. He had left her order unexpectedly, and Anders had gathered that she was furious at Hawke for doing so, especially after he refused to fraternise with her again after his contract was up. The mage had had a short but rather unpleasant encounter with the elf once, in a back alley of Lowtown, and he knew that she held wicked grudges. Hawke was in her bad books, and since then she had tried countless times to bring him down or expose him. But even the leader of the fastest-growing thieves' guild in Kirkwall could not catch the ever-elusive Hawke.

Or perhaps his mask was a result of relentlessly being on the run from the Templars and hiding his apostate sister from them. Of course, the need to be stealthy and crafty would greatly benefit anyone in their predicament, and Anders presumed that was why Bethany had never been caught. Hawke had loved his sister very much, and the healer had never seen anyone so protective over another being in all his days. He had no doubt in his mind that Hawke was willing to change for her. If not change, then design and don a façade to safeguard her and his family.

As much sense as these possible motives made, they all had their weak points. As Hawke became powerful and well-known, the need the hide from Athenril grew less with each passing day. There was no way the crook would dare risk herself or her guild to uncover the man. And Bethany had perished years ago down in the depths of the Deep Roads. There was no one for him to protect any more. Not even his mother.

So why did Hawke _still_ act the way he did? Why did he continue to don his mask? There was no longer need for it. Of course, his friends knew how he worked, and they knew he was a sincerely good man and a remarkable friend, once you earned his trust. But they never understood precisely why he wore the guise and behaved how he did, and continued to do so after all threats vanished. Oh, they tried to, but Hawke was stubborn, and gave away little.

Indeed, if Anders thought about it, the rogue had never told them much about his life in Ferelden. Only that his family was forever running, and that his father was a good man, and how he and his brother never really saw eye to eye. And how much, despite their hardships, they loved each other.

Anders pondered about Hawke much in his spare time, trying to decipher the man. Hawke was one of his truest friends, and it irritated him sometimes how little he actually knew of him. Sure, the two had had many a late-night in-depth discussion in the Amell mansion, and Anders had a pretty good idea of Hawke's morals and beliefs. They were close to his own in many ways, except of course for his astuteness. And the rogue, despite his background and the love for his sister, really didn't care about the rising mage-Templar animosity. He preferred, as always, to stay out of it, and observe from behind in some hidden shadow. Anders could venture and say he knew Hawke for what he was now, but he could not claim to know exactly why Hawke was the way he was or why he did the things he did. But Anders was stubborn as well, and refused to write his friend off.

These thoughts, and much more unpleasant ones, plagued the tired mind of the mage as he fed his friend in silence, and after, as he excused himself from the small room to wash the bowl in the tub of water outside his clinic. He thought often nowadays, perhaps too much for his own good, as Varric commented on occasion. 'Anders, you'll burn a hole through the floor if you stare any harder at it,' or, snapping his fingers, saying, "Hey! Earth to Blondie!" being his favourite idioms.

Though he desperately refused to think about Hawke's predicament and what this might mean for him. For all of them.

He was still lost in thought until a voice and a rough hand on his shoulder ripped him from his reverie.

"_I said hi_, Anders. Is -?" a smooth voice boomed and was cut off over the relative quiet of the Lowtown streets.

The mage jumped, startled, and dropped the bowl back into the dirty water, splashing himself in the face and the front upon doing so. He gasped in surprise, and stumbled up quickly.

A hearty laugh followed by a friendly slap on the back is what Anders received before turning around and facing the dwarf.

_Speak of the Devil._

"Hey, Blondie, keep your socks on! If I wanted to kill you, Bianca would've put an arrow between your eyes already. And It would have been much sooner than this."

Anders glared at his friend for a moment in annoyance, then sighed and started to wipe the dirty water from his face with the back of his hand.

"Sorry, Varric. I was distracted."

The dwarf tilted his head up and looked around the streets. He mocked disinterest and turned his nose up.

"By what? I don't know about you, Blondie, but this place is as boring as Choir Boy on half price liquor night. There's nothing new down here." He craned his neck to the left and leaned back a bit.

"Although, that guy over there," he nodded in some vague direction, "he seems to be coughing up an awful lot of… whatever that black stuff is. Never seen _that_ before."

Anders huffed as he looked down to examine his coat. It was wet in spots, which didn't bother him much. Being a healer for refugees and the poor, the mage had seen everything, and had nearly every unpleasant liquid splash, ooze, or be thrown up on his jacket.

But his feathery shoulder pads, _they_ were a different story.

"Varric, my feathers are wet. They'll get ruined now," he whined as he reached for a dirty rag in a heap on the ground near the tub of water.

"Ah, stop it. Those things are hideous anyways. They make you look like a market turkey."

Anders glared at the dwarf again as he carefully tried to wipe the water off the feathers before they soaked in and were spoiled.

"Is there something you needed, Varric?" The mage asked with a tad of annoyance in his voice.

Varric's face fell a bit as his tone lost its jest and became somewhat somber. He hesitated for a moment.

"Um, yeah. I was just checking up on Hawke. He awake yet?"

Anders froze, rag in hand, for a fraction of a second. His mind blanked.

"No," he stated too quickly. He started to panic a bit.

Should he tell Varric? He hadn't told anyone yet. And shouldn't Hawke be the first to know? But he didn't even know for sure how serious Hawke's injuries were. Would it do any good spreading rumours?

The dwarf saw the panic and conflict flash over the mage's face. His blood turned cold.

"Ah, shit. He isn't dead, is he?"

Anders, slightly grateful for the distraction, and a bit astonished at how _scared_ his friend looked, laughed nervously.

"No, Varric. He's quite alive."

The dwarf let loose a breath he didn't know he was holding as the fear that so suddenly gripped him was released. A fear that he had come to know all too well the past week or so.

"He's still asleep. I doubt it will be long before he's up."

_Liar._

"His vitals are stable now, and his breathing is deeper. I'm thinking of breaking the healing spell tomorrow to see what happens."

_Lies._

"I doubt there'll be any significant damage to him."

_LIES LIES LIES._

The dwarf looked relieved, though a bit suspicious of the mage, and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"It was pretty bad, Blondie. You said so yourself."

_He sees right through me._

"I know, and it was. But he'll be fine. He's been healing for a week, remember?"

Varric still seemed skeptical.

"And," Anders added with a small smirk, trying to ease the tension, "_I've_ been healing him."

The dwarf sighed.

"Alright, alright," he admitted, beaten. He raised his hands up in defeat. "If you say he's fine, I'm sure he's fine."

Anders let out an unknown breath of his own, his body easing from tension. The dwarf stepped closer.

"Hey," he said softly, gripping the mage's upper arm. "Me and the gang are gonna get some drinks this evening at the Man. You should come. It won't be the same without Hawke, but we all need this, I think."

Anders shook his head. There was no way he'd leave Hawke now.

Varric smiled sadly.

"Didn't think so." He let go of his friend, and straightened up.

"Well, then, I guess I'll leave you to it. Whatever it is you do down here. Just let me know when he does wake up, so I can come and kick his ass. See ya later, Blondie."

Anders returned the smile as his eyes sunk to the floor.

The dwarf turned to leave, but paused before his back was to the mage.

"Hey, Blondie." Anders' eyes shot back up to his friend, who had a genuine smile upon his face.

"Get some rest. You look terrible."

And with that, the dwarf disappeared stealthily like the rogue he was into the crowds of Lowtown.

* * *

Anders stood in place for a few moments, reflecting on what just happened.

He felt absolutely _awful_ for lying to Varric about Hawke. He was a dreadful liar, and knew his companion suspected something wasn't quite right. But, like a good friend, the dwarf trusted him and believed his claims.

His lies.

Anders suddenly felt like he didn't deserve the man as a friend, or any one of their other party members for that matter, and shame creeped its way up from inside him, turning his face red in humiliation. He suspected Justice was in part to blame.

But really, what was he supposed to do? Hawke had just awoken from a week-long coma. He needed time to rest and relax before-

_Before he met any of his friends._ Yes. That was it. Too much at once was never a good thing.

_Too much. Indeed. _

He shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts, focussing instead on what herbs he needed to collect for his rapidly dwindling store as he bent down to wash Hawke's soup bowl. Again.

Perhaps he could convince Sebastian to take Merrill outside the city walls for a half day of gathering. The Dalish elf was always glad to frolic in the grassy beaches near the coast, but she was so naïve and absent-minded that Anders feared a High Dragon could swoop down right beside her and she would never notice until she was being chewed up in its massive jaws. It was irritating, how thoughtless she was at times, but it was part of her charm. She needed someone to watch out for her, and perhaps only the Brother had the patience and disposition to do so with little complaint. As much as Anders disliked the man, he had to admit he was an able fighter and someone he could trust.

He finished up drying the dish and returned leisurely through his clinic to the back room Hawke was kept in, his mind on plants the entire way. He never noticed himself slow down until he was stood motionless in front of the door.

For some unknown reason, he was rapidly struck with an immense shard of fear and reluctance, and all thoughts of herbs were wiped clean from his mind. He had absolutely no desire to walk through the door to his friend, Hawke, so strong and brave, Ferelden refugee, expert smuggler, Kirkwall's Champion, lying helpless on the small cot. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

If only he could step through, and Hawke be sitting up in the chair, and turn as he heard him enter, and smile Anders' favourite smile, and stand up to greet him-

No. This was too much. It had to stop. This had been going on for too long.

His mind of late seemed to enjoy torturing him with scenes from his memory. Scenes of Hawke acting normal.

_Scenes that would never come to life again._

The mage nearly broke down right there in front of the door. He shook from head to foot, a terrible tremor seizing his exhausted body, and dragging his drained mind to the floor. A cold numbness spread throughout him.

_Oh Hawke. Why did it have to be you?_

Anders was trapped. He had no idea what to do. He was all alone in the world, guarding a terrible secret that would change the fate of all. This was so much bigger than himself. Much bigger than his fight for Justice.

And then a memory so sharp and white-hot and feral and so _real_ pierced his mind.

_The world slowed down as he watched the massive sword enter through the midriff of his friend. Time sped up again, almost faster than normal, as he watched Hawke plunge his daggers into the Qunari. Almost as if it was making up for the slowing of the seconds. _

_ Do you believe in me?_

_ No, I can't._

_It was so fast that he never knew what happened next, until time stopped altogether and he was kneeling beside his friend, shouting words he didn't know he was saying, but begging him to stay here with him, for him. His body eventually made up for the lack of action his mind took, procuring spell after spell, trying to keep the man alive._

_ You're on your own._

_ I have always been on my own. I just forgot for a while._

_But he had no doubt his friend would die. And he was terrified. _

_There was no time left._

The painful memory stabbed into his consciousness, gouging out new, raw pits of guilt and fear and total helplessness, again and again.

He had been teetering on the edge, and he had finally fallen.

_'You've done everything you could, Anders,'_ the voices would say. But they were _wrong_.

_ Wrong wrong wrong._

It was _his_ fault Hawke was the way he was now. _His alone._

If he hadn't been so _stupid-_

If he'd acted _sooner-_

If he had_ more time-_

"ENOUGH!"

The words of Justice erupted from his own mouth and startled him, snapping him to, bringing the speeding train of dire thoughts and horrifying visions to a sudden cataclysmic crash.

The world around him swiftly materialised. He was sitting on the ground, leaned against Hawke's door, head in his hands, heaving deep, silent dry sobs. No one was in his clinic, but he could hear the world go on just outside it's doors. It was as if the mage had not just experienced his near undoing. No one would ever know, and no one would ever care.

He took a while to gather himself and steady his breathing. Never before had he experienced something like this. Something so strong, so terrifying. So earth-shattering. He torpidly cast a weak calming aura on himself.

What had happened? Mere moments before, it had been a normal day – well, not really normal, considering that Hawke had finally arisen, and then the short, almost-revealing visit from Varric – and then it had suddenly been cast into terror.

Was it a sign? A message? Was he doing the wrong thing? The _right_ thing? Or was he simply being driven mad by recent circumstances?

For once, he was grateful for Justice's intrusion.

When he had relaxed enough, he took a deep breath and heaved himself up off the floor. Looking down, he noticed Hawke's bowl by his feet, covered in dust. He would have to wash it. For a third time.

This simple, amusing thought brought his hurt, timid mind out from it's shell, and he stooped to retrieve the item. Another time, perhaps, he'd wash the bowl.

He steeled his will, gripping the door handle, and with one last surge of fear churning his gut, turned the knob and strode inside.

It was one of the bravest things Anders had ever done.

* * *

As he entered the dim room, the mage, mind blank, looked upon the form of his friend.

It seemed Hawke had gotten over his previous disdain for Anders, and instead had taken up staring at the dirty ceiling. He never looked over as his friend creaked the door open.

"Hey, Anders. You know, I never realised just how _fascinating_ your clinic is. I mean, with all the dirt and potions and cockroaches, there's always something for me to see."

Anders smiled. He had felt detached from the world, sort of floating, since his episode only moments before. But Hawke's words had somehow grounded him, bringing him back to reality. Maybe he could almost forget what had so recently happened if he tried.

"Like, did you know, this ceiling has exactly two hundred and fourteen rocks, sixty five cracks, eight spider's webs, and a hole in it? Right there, see?" He nodded his head to the right of the room, near the top of the fireplace.

"You should really get that fixed. It's probably how the rats are getting in."

Anders laughed lightly, feeling oddly revived. His incident had put such a heavy weight upon him, and Hawke had lifted it.

"This is a _free_ clinic, Hawke, remember? Maybe if I had money like some Hightown nobles…"

"Ha! You are such a jester, Anders. You make me laugh," Hawke replied, voice dripping with sarcasm, as he turned and looked at his friend.

Anders' heart skipped a beat as he looked into the face of the rogue. He felt a pang of the regret and fault his episode had forced upon him, but he could feel Justice force it down. He knew the demon wanted no part in this surge of emotions. It was only getting in the way of their quest.

Again, he silently thanked the spirit, and forced a smile.

"You should get some rest now, Hawke. You're body needs it," he suggested, as he cautiously moved toward the chair by the cot and sat down, facing his friend. He was still holding the dusty bowl.

"No, Anders, what my body _needs_ is a trip to the Rose. The Mistress's 'special services', I think. I heard Serendipity performs _excellently_. I may have to indulge and see for myself if the rumours are true."

Anders raised his eyebrows and gave Hawke a questioning look.

"Really? That's the best you could come up with?" he sighed.

Hawke shrugged indifferently.

"Hey, I'm wounded, Anders. I've been out of action for quite a while, and all these potions are making my head fuzzy. So it's _your_ fault, really."

The mage knew the comment was in jest, but considering how many long, hard hours he'd put into rescuing his friend, and just how physically exhausted he was, not to mention how muddled his brain was from his recent escapade, he was slightly hurt.

"_My _fault? If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead up in the Keep," he quipped. He realised what he said a moment too late, and froze.

"Dead, eh? I didn't know a broken shoulder could kill."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello again! I just want to say thanks for all the new reviews, favs, and follows! It really means so much to me that people enjoy reading my work and look forward to more.**

**So! Here we are. I guess Hawke finds out in this chapter. And I guess Anders is all sad and angsty again. And I'll admit this chapter is perhaps my least favourite. I just want to get this part out of the way so I can get to the ****_much_**** more interesting bits later on. **

**And about my last chapter. Apparently it wasn't as bad as I thought. So I left it the way it is.**

**SOLDIER-MS: Thanks for reviewing again! I know, I actually surprise myself with how often updates are, considering school and everything! Though we'll see how long ****_that_**** lasts! And yes, your wish comes true! Hope you enjoy!**

**Snowhelm: Thanks for the review! And for the compliment :) Hope you enjoy!**

**Enjoy the chapter, and please review with any thoughts/criticism/flames! I just want to hear from you! Thanks!**

* * *

Hawke suppressed a smile as he saw the look of fear and panic wash over the mage. He guessed he'd finally found Anders' sweet spot. Or sore spot. Whatever spot it was, Hawke knew that his friend was close to cracking, and this greatly satisfied the rogue.

It hadn't taken as long as he thought for Anders to cave. Normally the mage would just roll his eyes and accuse him of being childish and tell him exactly what he needed to know. But ever since he woke up, he knew Anders was keeping something from him. There was something more going on. He knew it because the mage had _refused_ to just lay it all out like he so often did. But he had struggled. Anders was a dreadful liar. And of course he could read it on his face as easily as he could read a book.

So, naturally, Hawke was immediately enthralled and had tried to worm the answers he needed from the man. Though he was tired and his mind was not working as fast or efficiently as normal, giving him less of an edge. True, his comebacks and remarks at the moment were definitely not his greatest works, but he had succeeded nonetheless. He felt a small pang of pride that he managed to squeeze the mage enough.

_And I hardly even tried._

He watched in amusement as Anders froze like a bolt of lightning hit him, nearly all the blood draining from his face. Then the mage's expression turned from one of fear to intense loathing and pity, and Hawke's internal grin faltered.

He had never seen his friend display such raw and fierce emotions, even when being possessed by Justice or trying to convince him to help create a free-mage world. He could not begin to fathom why Anders would be so deeply troubled.

_This must be bigger than I thought._

A small part of Hawke feared for what his friend would tell him. That part wished to rewind the seconds to before he so blatantly pointed out the slip in Anders' retort.

But nearly all of him so desperately desired to know the answers.

So he held his gaze with the mage, determined to see his reaction.

A few moments passed in silence, the tension increasing to near uncomfortable amounts. It became almost palpable before Hawke decided to take action.

He tilted his head down infinitesimally and the look in his eyes was soft. He was encouraging Anders to continue.

Now Hawke had a skill that he was extremely, though secretly, proud of. Growing up on the run, living in many places, and meeting many new people, he had picked up the ability to not only use his words skillfully, but his eyes. Where his silver tongue would fail (which it rarely did), his eyes would enter the stage, and his target had no chance. He could _literally_ gaze the clothes off people's backs, which he did on occasion. For laughs, of course.

He didn't know exactly how he did it, but whenever he felt like it, he could pour such intense emotion into his azure eyes. Be it anger, warning, scrutiny, or, like now, encouragement, he could persuade nearly anyone to do his bidding. His eyes had saved him from many early deaths and giving up precious coin to bandit and merchant alike. His friends, he thought, were yet unaware of his 'gift', as he was careful using it around them, though nearly all had become victim to it once or twice. Except Merrill, of course. You could tell her the Sea was made of chocolate and she'd dive right in.

Hawke had discovered his talent at an early age, and developed and fine-tuned it throughout his life. He could persuade Bethany to show him the small balls of fire she could conjure in her palms, even though she knew it was forbidden in the household. He had been the cause of many late-night raids of farmer's fields with Carver and friends. He could even convince his father at times to not mention misbehaviour to his mother.

Yes, it was a fine gift indeed.

And when he was fifteen, he managed to sway a Dalish outcast from a small village the Hawkes had tentatively settled in to give him facial tattoos. They were small, but elegant, and were blacker than the starless night. They circled his eyes, crossing the bridge of his nose to meet, and small wisps like fire flared from them, riding his cheekbones and fading out near where his eyebrows ended. They hurt, but he fell in love with them after the elf gave him a mirror, and he practically skipped home to very unimpressed parents. He knew the dark tattoos amplified his bright eyes and made it all the easier to use them against his prey. His siblings often mocked him, and he carried the irritating but secretly amusing sobriquet of 'raccoon' for as long as they both lived.

He hadn't been called that in three years.

But Anders seemed to not notice his urging. He was looking into his friend's eyes, but he wasn't really there. His mind was a thousand years and a million miles away. Not even Hawke's talent could rip him from whatever was surging through his mind at the moment. He knew then that this was serious indeed. No one had _ever_ ignored his gaze. And a stronger swell of curiosity pulsed through him.

"Anders," Hawke barely whispered, slicing through the tension and the mage's reverie.

The soft words managed to pull his friend back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. A light flickered in his ochre eyes, letting Hawke know he had returned. The tiniest of smiles graced his face as he softened his piercing eyes again.

"Anders," he repeated. "Tell me what happened."

The mage quivered with fear as he was entranced by Hawke's eyes. His friend looked so calm, so sure, and he felt as if he could trust him with his deepest darkest secrets. Which he indeed had.

Anders opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words just refused to be spoken.

He wanted to tell Hawke exactly what had ensued over the past week. He wanted to let Hawke know that he fought and killed the Arishok, and Isabela came back, and the Qunari were gone, and how he was to be named Champion of Kirkwall. He truly wanted to, _needed_ to, but then he'd have to disclose other, more important, more terrifying news. He was loathe to do so.

But Hawke deserved to know. Anders knew it was only a matter of time before Hawke caught him stumbling, or notice him slip up, and say something about it. He just wished it hadn't been so soon after his awakening. He should have rested for a bit longer. He should have received the news when he was in a better state of mind.

The mage sighed internally. He knew these excuses were his mind's own way of stalling. His friend needed to know, and no amount of hiding and prolonging would change the fact that he had to tell him at some point. He could not go his whole life without knowing. Though Anders sometimes thought he'd prefer to make a deal with another demon to stop time from flowing.

Anders was not good with words, though. He was adept, and could write fine pieces for his manifesto, but compared to Hawke, he was but a child learning to speak. Where in the world could he even begin?

How do you tell your friend these things?

He was almost more terrified to mess his words up or blurt something unintended or too revealing out. But he had to start somewhere. He would go at it step by step, and attempt to take whatever came next in stride.

He sat motionless for a few moments more, desperately searching for the strength he needed. He found none in himself, so he took it from Hawke. He seemed to do that a lot lately.

Taking a deep breath, mind shaking more than his body was, he finally started.

_Here we go._

* * *

Hawke could see the fear written all over Anders' face, contorting it, making the mage look like he was in pain. The intensity in Hawke's eyes and the severity of emotions from Anders equalled the tension that had seeped into the air, tightening like thick cords. One could nearly slice it with a sword. If it were any tauter, both men were likely to drown.

Then Anders spoke. His voice was raspy and quiet, and had no emotion, so unlike what was going on inside of him.

"You- you, ah, made the Qunari leave. They're gone, Hawke. You did it."

Hawke was surprised at this news, but didn't show it. The fact he was still alive and in Anders' clinic in Kirkwall suggested so. He continued to stare at his friend.

"Isabela. She came back with the tome. Said she'd gotten halfway to Ostwick before she turned around."

Now Hawke was startled. He raised his eyebrows in alarm. He was almost heartbroken after reading that last note she left. He couldn't believe she'd just lie to him and leave him like that. After all they'd been through, after everything they'd seen…

But he should have known she'd return. She always did.

"She – came back?"

Anders nodded.

He was suddenly not angry at her any longer, and something inside of him softened upon realising it.

"They stormed the Keep and took hostages. A lot of people died. They killed the Viscount."

Hawke was shocked to his core. The Viscount – _dead?_ The Qunari weren't _that_ bold or stupid. Were they? They didn't possibly think they'd ever get away with it. Did they?

He felt a small twinge of sadness over the death of Dumar. He was a kind and smart man thrust into an unwanted leadership role. He had struggled to maintain order in a city riddled with political, ethical, and religious tensions, trying his hardest to appease the mages who wanted more freedom, the Templars under Meredith who threatened him to not make the mistakes of his predecessor, and the Qunari who refused to leave. The pressure from the three sides forced him to try and balance the needs of all, ultimately appeasing no one. That didn't even include his personal issues. His son was murdered a few months back, who beforehand greatly offended the Chantry with his pushing to become closer to the Qunari. Yet through it all, he held his own, and tried his hardest.

"How-?" he began. He remembered that the Qunari had indeed set siege to the city, but he _still_ could not remember anything after fighting with a group of them somewhere in Hightown. How could he forget? Curiosity was pouring into him quickly now, and he wanted to know everything, but he had to be patient. He could tell this was hard for Anders.

"They beheaded him in his study," Anders interrupted, voice still shaking and quiet. "No one saw it happen, but we found his… remains. There was a funeral for him two days ago in Hightown." Anders dropped his eyes. "Few people attended it."

A deeper sadness crept through Hawke at this news. Though Dumar irritated him at times, he scarcely deserved the end he received. And how could no one show up at his funeral? Sure, he hadn't done much the past few years, but couldn't people see he had tried his damndest?

Anders continued. "We – we fought our way to the Keep, and the Arishok was there," His voiced cracked. "He was angry. He wanted his book. That's when Isabela showed up."

Hawke remained silent, ears pricked, urging him to continue.

"The Qunari said they'd leave, but they wanted to take her with them. You said no."

Hawke chuckled darkly. "Of course I did! Only a fool would pick a fight with the Arishok himself."

Then realisation dawned on him.

"That's where I was injured, isn't it?" he asked flatly.

Anders swallowed and nodded, face white.

"I killed the Arishok." It wasn't a question.

Anders nodded again. To his great surprise, Hawke burst out laughing.

"Ha! I killed the Arishok! Damned horn-head got what he deserved! Who does he think he is, burning down _my_ city? Shows him! I-"

"Meredith made you Champion of Kirkwall," the mage cut him off.

Hawke stopped mid-sentence.

"Wait. _Really?_" he asked, fascinated.

Anders nodded a third time.

"You mean to tell me I met the Knight-Commander? And I don't remember it?" Hawke asked slowly, looking put-out. "Damn! Was she every bit as ugly as we've heard?"

Anders didn't look amused. He just looked sad.

Hawke sobered. "So… Champion of Kirkwall, huh? What does that mean? It sounds important. Do I get a nice new mansion? A share in the businesses? Are women practically _swooning_ at my feet?" He raised his eyebrows in mock interest.

"It's just a title, I believe."

Hawke sighed. "Way to ruin the dream, Anders."

A tiny smile crept up onto the mage's face.

Hawke was in awe. _Champion of Kirkwall? Maker, how did I manage _that_?_ A lot had changed since that fight with the Qunari group in the streets.

While Hawke contemplated the new information, Anders tried to quell the storm that was raging inside of him. He had told Hawke the truth. He was grateful of that. A weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, and he could breathe easier. He never expected his friend to take what he told him roughly. For any other person, it might have been too much. But who said Hawke was normal? No, the Isabela and Viscount and Arishok fragments of the story were the easy parts. It was what would come next, or eventually, that frightened Anders to his core.

But he had to do it. It wasn't fair to Hawke.

And Hawke knew Anders wasn't finished with the story.

Anders started shaking again. Hawke reached his arm towards him and gently placed his hand on the mage's own trembling ones.

"There's more." This was also not a question.

Anders nodded, biting his lip. He was not looking at his friend. His eyes were darting around the room, taking in everything but the man in front of him.

"Tell me."

"I – I can't, Hawke. I'm sorry," he almost sobbed.

Hawke squeezed his hand lightly. "You can."

Anders looked into the piercing eyes of his friend, and knew the moment had come. He tried then to take in as much of Hawke as he could. His short, ruffled brown hair, his light scarred skin, and his brilliant sapphire eyes that, in just a moment's time, would lose their spark forever.

He took a deep breath, one that seemed to last an age, trying to gather up every scrap of courage left. He sighed.

"I put a memory spell on you, Hawke. You can't remember anything because I didn't want you to." His voice came out strong, much to his own surprise.

Hawke narrowed his eyes, but kept his hand on Anders'.

"Why?"

"I thought it would be too much for you. Too much at once. You needed time to heal, time to recover." The words started tumbling out of his mouth faster and faster.

"I didn't want you to know until you were well enough. I'm sorry – I should have said something sooner." His voice was raising. Then he started sobbing.

"It was so fast, Hawke. No one saw it coming. I tried everything I could! But it wasn't enough. I was terrified I'd lost you! I almost did! You almost died!" Anders was rapidly unravelling.

"Anders," Hawke stated calmly. This was _not_ what he was expecting.

"I'm so sorry, Hawke! I didn't know what to do! I _still_ don't know what to do! I tried so hard, but it didn't do anything! It was for _nothing_!" The mage was in hysterics.

"Anders, tell-" Hawke started, voice much firmer. But Anders interrupted him.

"And now you're hurt, and I don't know how to fix you, and I don't know how bad it is, and you're-"

"Anders!" Hawke nearly shouted. The mage was snapped from his rambling and glanced up to him. His eyes where red, and small tears streaked down his face, making clean lines in the dirt on his cheeks. His breathing was ragged and shallow, and his body was still trembling. He looked pitiful.

"Anders, I'm fine. I'm alive. You saved me. See?" he spoke softer and gestured to himself.

_Maker's ass. He puts too much pressure on himself._

Anders shook his head quickly.

"No, you don't understand. I can't tell you."

Hawke, despite how sorry he felt for his friend at the moment, was getting a little irate. Why couldn't he just tell him?

The mage removed his hand from Hawke's grasp and stood up slowly. He paced, shoulders slumped, towards the table. Hawke kept his eyes on him while he did so. He reached for his staff leaning against the wall, and returned to his seat in the chair.

He looked down at his staff. It was etched beautifully from beechwood by some forgotten creator, and was painted a brilliant red and black. Hawke had given it to him after he looted it from some dead mercenary. Hardly romantic, but he treasured it nonetheless. It worked well with him, and he felt such a strong connection between him and it that only other mages would ever understand. He traced the patterns of trees and stars along it's length absentmindedly. He was aware the man in the cot was staring at him, waiting.

"I'll show you."

And then suddenly Anders swung his staff around, and a purple light came from his hands. He looked at Hawke one last time, only for a brief moment, before he sent the light towards him.

And as Hawke was hit with the spell, the force in his mind that had prevented him from remembering anything was being removed. It sort of felt like it was being scraped away, chipped at, piece by piece.

Forgotten memories flashed through his mind at lightning speed.

He remembered seeing Meredith, and Orsino, and talking to the Arishok.

He saw Isabela step over the dead Qunari soldier, and Dumar's crown on the floor, and the Arishok handing the book to someone.

He watched as the Qunari challenged him, and he saw flashes of silver and black as enormous weapons swung at him.

He could recall the feeling in the hall, and the looks on his friend's faces.

And Isabela crying.

He remembered how tired he had been, and how he had tried to stop the monster from dueling.

And he remembered an axe falling, and feeling proud, and-

Hawke's blood turned cold.

The sword. And the eyes. And the _sound_.

Abruptly he looked at Anders, a strange emotionless mask on his usually expressive face.

The mage, as soon as the memory spell had been lifted, lowered his hand. It fell to his side, deflated, as he watched his friend painfully remember.

It all made sense now. All the little fragments of information, all the little puzzle pieces, everything. They came swirling together, blurs of shapes and colours and shards of hard emotions and soft memories. The puzzle fitted together, and he saw it.

Hawke looked away from Anders, and instead to the blanket covering his body. He reached for the edge, and gradually lifted it from himself, as if hoping that, if done slow enough, it might not be true, or it might undo itself.

But there it was.

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**A/N: Sorry! I guess I lied to you a bit. Hawke just remembers in this chapter. He doesn't know the true extent of his injury yet. Oh well! More for you to look forward to! :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello again everyone! I am back! I did not die, as some of you probably believed. I've just been extremely busy with uni lately. I did warn you all, though. I'm on my reading week now, so I'll try to churn out a couple of chapters for you.**

**So I'm a bit rusty from not writing for so long, and I'm not sure how well this chapter is. I guess it's for you to decide. **

**I wrote an Elder Scrolls one-shot if you want to read that, too. It was my warm-up for this chapter. It's kinda sad, I guess, and focuses on a letter Lydia reads from the Dragonborn before he leaves to defeat Alduin. **

**So anyways, read on! Please enjoy, and review with any thoughts/criticism!**

**freezeazy: Thanks for your review! I know, I'm terrible with pacing and my stories are usually too dragged out for most. But I feel it's almost better because you get to know the characters and then later on there's just too many feels. Oh lord. **

**guren666: Wish granted!**

**SnowHelm: Thanks again for your review! I know, Merrill is so adorable, isn't she? And Anders smartens up a bit in this chapter, thank god. **

**Erkanna: Thanks for your review! Glad you like it! :)**

* * *

Hawke's mind blanked once more and he felt detached, sort of like he was watching himself from above as his hand grabbed the corner of the scratchy grey blanket that was covering his body. He knew deep down that what he would see would change his life forever.

He had no control over what he was doing, and he wanted so badly to release his grip and look over to Anders and say something stupid like he would have any other time. Or perhaps fall asleep and wake up in his bed at home, shaking but relieved that all this had only been a nightmare.

But that didn't happen. Instead, his arms clumsily removed the blanket from him, and for the first time since he woke up, Hawke got a good look at his body.

There was no real difference, much to his surprise, and his panic subsided slightly. He had been worried that his leg or foot had been hewn off, and to his relief, both his legs and feet were intact. He had on some brand new smallclothes, and that was it.

But _of course_ his legs would be fine. The Arishok didn't hack them off.

Hawke's panic grew again as he remembered what the Arishok did. He looked towards his stomach, and all he saw there was a long, straight faded pink scar slightly above his belly button. Nothing too extreme, and he managed to give a tiny sigh of relief as he reached down to it and traced his fingers along its length.

But he stopped short as soon as he realised that he couldn't feel his fingers against his stomach.

And then he understood.

"Anders."

Anders didn't reply. He had been watching Hawke like a bird of prey the past few moments, scared out of his mind.

"Anders. What-?" Hawke's weak voice broke and he finally managed to wrench his gaze away from his stomach and over to his friend who he could tell was trying so hard to keep the tears from his eyes.

Anders forced himself to look into the eyes of his friend and opened his mouth to say something but found he couldn't. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"The Arishok put his sword through you and nearly killed you," he stated automatically, as if his body was acting on it's own accord. Because that's not what he wanted to say. It came out too harshly. But he knew he was too frightened, and had he been allowed control of his body, he would have remained silent in his fear.

Hawke knew this already, though. He remembered now the sword and those eyes, and his world fading from view.

"Why can't I feel…" he started, and moved his hands lower down his body.

Nothing. He could feel nothing.

His heart began to pound, and he lifted himself up halfway from the cot. He ran his hands down his legs almost to the knee, first the right, then the left.

Still nothing.

"Anders-!" There was a panic growing inside of him, and his voice showed it.

He set his hands back down on the cot and pushed himself up the rest of the way so he was sitting completely upright in the bed. He ran his shaking hands all the way down his legs, even to his toes, which he grabbed one by one and wiggled.

When he still could feel nothing, the panicked man then tried to move his legs. He found that they would simply _not obey,_ no matter how hard he tried. He furrowed his brows and grunted with the effort.

Anders had been frozen in place as he watched his friend struggle to understand and comprehend. He wanted to comfort his friend and explain his predicament, but he found that even his body, which was completely in control only moments before, could do nothing.

So he sat there motionless, watching detachedly and from seemingly somewhere else.

Hawke, however, had found his way back to his body. Everything became so real and intense then, and his eyes widened as he saw everything clearer, in minute and fine detail.

He became afraid, and in his fear he tried to shuffle back on the bed, which was nearly impossible with two lifeless legs. So he used his arms instead, and he only stopped when he felt his back press against the cold stone wall. Having nowhere to go, he looked over to Anders desperately, who was staring at him with a completely blank expression.

"Anders, why can't I feel anything?" His voice trembled in fear. "Why can't I feel my legs?"

Anders was in a raging battle with himself. Well, more with his mind and his body. His body had stopped working completely now, and in it's absence his mind had somehow, against all odds, formed a rational thought. _Hawke is scared. He needs me. I need to explain some things to him_.

So his body finally yielded and allowed his mind to take control again. And Anders told himself that he wouldn't freak out any more. He would remain calm and collected, because that's what Hawke needed right now. He needed him to be strong and to tell him it was ok, not him become a blubbering mess again.

No, he had already messed this up. He would do it right this time.

So he leaned over and put a steady hand on Hawke's trembling shoulders. Hawke looked into his eyes, and Anders' heart ached. He looked so frightened.

Anders tried to put on a warm smile and said in the most composed tone he could muster, "It's alright, Hawke. Don't panic. It's alright. It's going to be fine." He sent a small calming aura from his hand on Hawke's shoulder.

The man in the cot managed to relax a bit, but he wasn't completely calm.

"Anders, why can't I feel my legs?" He asked again, a bit more composed than before, but still frightened.

Anders thought for a brief moment that perhaps he should lie to Hawke. At least until he was a bit more collected. Tell him something like an herb he used caused a feeling of numbness that soon went away. But he shook his head internally and told himself _no. I'm going to tell him the truth this time._ He knew from before what happened when the truth was hidden. Things only got worse as the lie stretched on.

So it took a moment but he mustered up his courage and spoke easily, which surprised him. "The sword entered your body right above your navel. Right here," he explained as he reached over and ran a long finger over the pink scar on the other mans abdomen.

Hawke nearly threw up as he watched Anders touch his stomach because he could not feel it.

"It was quick and sharp, and you're lucky it missed most of your internal organs," he started, then realised he should not have said the word _lucky_. He gulped, then continued on. "It missed your stomach and kidneys, but it got your small intestines. It wasn't too bad, though, and I managed to fix it quite easily."

Anders did lie a bit here, though. The sword _had_ missed his stomach and kidneys, and it _did_ get his intestines. But it was much worse than he let on. It took him the better part of an entire day, and nearly all of his potions and magic, before he managed to close up his digestive tract completely. It was not fun, and it was a miracle Hawke hadn't died from infection. But he didn't think Hawke needed to know the gruesome details. He just needed to know what was injured and that he had patched him up.

Hawke felt like throwing up again.

"But the sword - " Now _here_ was the hard part. He gulped again. _Just get this over with._ "The sword managed to – to, ah, – it managed to slice through your lumbar vertebral column."

Hawke gave him a blank look but there was confusion in his eyes.

"Your spine, Hawke. The sword went through your spine."

Hawke said nothing. Anders would explain this slowly.

"It went between your third and fourth vertebrae. Those are the bones in the lumbar section, right here," he explained as he reached behind himself and pointed to his lower back. Hawke's gaze followed his hand.

"The bones in your spine don't touch each other, though. They have these spongy cushions in between them called discs. It's what allows you to bend your back and twist from side to side. The sword hit your third vertebrae and slid off and into the disc between it and the fourth bone." Hawke looked forward again and his unseeing eyes were fixated on the table across the room as he listened to Anders explain in his professional healer voice.

"It – it cut through the nerves running up your spine. Those nerves are what allow you to feel your legs." _And to walk._

Hawke remained motionless as he stared vacantly ahead. He was listening, though, but he didn't really understand everything Anders was saying. _Lumbar? Discs?_ What did all that mean?

Anders let him contemplate this information. He knew it was a lot to take in.

But as time stretched on and Hawke still did not move, Anders spoke up.

"Hawke?" He asked tentatively.

Hawke, still unseeing, asked, "so, what does that mean?"

Anders straightened up in his chair. "Well, it means that, for now at least, you have no sensation in your legs and feet, and you'll be unable to move them on your own."

Hawke's heart sank in his chest as he stared at him, trying to comprehend the words he was saying. His eyes focused again, and he looked over to his friend. "For now?"

Anders smiled. "Yes. There's a lot of swelling and inflammation around your spine, and this sometimes causes the nerves to get pinched. Pinched nerves can cause a temporary paralysis."

There it was. That word. He had thought of it and its meanings for so long now that it became almost taboo for him. He hadn't said it once since the incident at the Keep. And yet he just said it. In front of Hawke himself, no less. Anders felt a tiny triumphant pang in that he succeeded in saying the word that had haunted his days and his dreams.

It was a tiny step, but a step nonetheless.

Hawke furrowed his brows again, this time in confusion. "But you said the sword went through my nerves. How can they be pinched when they've been broken?"

"Well, your wound was messy, and I fixed it as much as I could. But I'm not too sure yet exactly what was hit and how bad your injuries are." This was true. Anders _didn't_ know precisely what had happened. He suspected that Hawke would be unable to feel his legs. He hoped against hope, though, that he managed to somehow mend the nerves that had been severed, and that they were simply inflamed and Hawke eventually would regain the senses in his legs.

But could hope make his friend walk again?

Anders shook his head to rid himself of such thoughts. No. he refused to think of these things. One step at a time.

"So I could get the feeling back in them?" Hawke asked, breaking through the mage's reverie. His voice was weak but hopeful.

_Yes! _Anders wanted to say. _Yes, Hawke, you'll be perfectly fine! Just a few days of rest and you'll be on your feet again killing bandits and rescuing citizens._

_No,_ his conscience told him. _No, Hawke. You won't be fine. You'll never walk again._

Anders knew. He always knew. He knew from the moment he watched in utter horror as the sword sliced through his friend that the man would never fully recover. His injuries were too severe, and he was lucky simply to be alive.

But he could not tell Hawke that. How could he? How do you go about telling someone that their legs are useless? That they'll probably never work again? That their whole life has been turned upside down?

But he promised himself that he would not lie to Hawke any more.

"Well…" he started, but his resolve failed as he looked into the piercing eyes of his friend. He looked so helpless and afraid and the mage knew he was clinging on to this last shred of hope.

So he managed a weak smile and said, "maybe, Hawke. I'm not sure yet. Only time will tell." _No. That's not good enough._ He hardened his gaze and added, "just… don't take my word for it. Nothing might change."

He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that that was a terrible thing to say. Why couldn't he just comfort Hawke and let him hold on to the chance that, however slim, he would be alright? _You are so stupid sometimes, Anders_ he reprimanded himself.

But Hawke didn't care.

"I can't – I can't be – " He stammered, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. His resolve had broken. He suddenly looked up to his friend again. "Anders," his voice quivered, "this can't be happening. I can't be –" he couldn't say it. "I can't be like this. You must have done something wrong. Did you do something wrong?" He didn't let the healer answer.

"Maybe you missed something. You did. I know you did. I can't be like this. I'll be fine. Right? Anders, tell me I'll be fine," he pleaded. He sounded so pitiful and Anders' heart ached again.

Anders didn't say anything, but he leaned over and placed his hand on Hawke's shoulder again.

"It's ok, Hawke," he murmured as the man began shaking uncontrollably. "It's ok."

Hawke's world was spiralling out of control, and his panic was rising so fast he was afraid he'd drown.

"No it's not! There must be something you can do! Use one of your potions, Anders! Or your magic! Do _something!_" The mage flinched at the harsh words. He knew Hawke was upset and not thinking clearly, but he had been so afraid that his friend would blame him for not reacting sooner or for not healing him fully.

"Hawke, I've done everything I could."

He heard the air rush past his ears and he tried to hold back the tears that threatened to form in his widened eyes.

"No you haven't! If you did I'd be fine! You can heal anyone, Anders, I know you can. So heal me!" His voice was raising.

He blinked over and over and his heart was pounding again and it felt as if it would burst through his bare chest.

Anders kept his hand on his shoulder and his face calm. This was _so hard._ Only a few moments ago _he_ was the one losing control, and his friend was keeping him sane. He would do the same.

Reflexively he swallowed and then did it again, as though he could rid himself of the pain knotting itself in his gut.

"You _have_ to do something, Anders! Anything! I can't be like this! This can't be happening! Go get someone else if you can't do something. Please!" Hawke's voice broke and he slumped, defeated. In the place of the crushing emotions a strange cold numbness spread.

Anders said nothing but squeezed his shoulder in comfort. Hawke looked up at Anders again, and croaked in a near whisper, "please, Anders. Please help me."

If Anders' heart ached before, it was simply being torn in two now. It pained him to no end to look into the terrified face of his friend and know that nothing he did now would erase the terror and shock that man was feeling. He would have given up anything to see him well and able again.

Hawke's eyes were red from him rubbing them and they threatened to spill over with tears.

Anders knew there was little he could do. But he knew that what Hawke needed right now was a friend.

So he got up slowly from his chair and sat down on the edge of the cot, his hand still on his friend's shoulder.

"I'm not sure what to do, Hawke. I'm sorry. I really did do everything I could." Hawke stared into his eyes, searching for a way out. When he found none and he only saw truth and pity he looked away.

How had everything gone _so wrong?_ And _so fast?_ How could he be – no. He couldn't even _think_ of that word. How could this happen to him? Something _must_ have gone wrong. Anders must have diagnosed him incorrectly or given him wrong potions or _something._ But deep down he knew this wasn't a dream, and he knew that this was really happening. The look in his friends eyes had shown him that.

He felt so utterly alone in the world.

But then he felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his weakening body, and the next thing Hawke knew he was crying into the shoulder of the mage, gripping him back tightly.

The two men sat there in the small dark room, holding each other as if the world would end if they let go. The time passed but neither noticed nor knew how long it had been.

Anders, at the start, had murmured words of comfort into the ear of his friend. But he eventually ran out of things to say, and simply sat there, sometimes rubbing his back, sometimes rocking back and forth, but mostly just being there. And that's all that Hawke needed.

Anders had only ever seen Hawke cry twice before. The first time was when he was holding his dying sister in his arms deep under the earth. It only lasted for a minute or two, and then he had hastily wiped the tears from his eyes before standing up and marching on. Anders never spoke of it with him.

The second time was when Anders had visited his friend in his room a week or so after he had found his mother and watched her die. He cried for longer this time and no longer felt shame in showing his emotions to his friend. Anders had comforted him in much the same way as now, though not for as long.

Hawke never liked crying in front of others. He had tried so hard to keep his emotions in check when his friends were around. If they saw him weak and vulnerable they might act strangely around him. And there was nothing Hawke hated more than people hiding something.

Now Isabela was his greatest friend, but the pirate was never good at sentimental things like crying. Which was fine by Hawke – he rarely needed a shoulder. No, she was better at giving him advice and a great time, mostly in the form of some highly illegal but awfully fun activity.

Varric was Hawke's good friend, too, and the two of them had indeed engaged in a few deep conversations in the past, but the other rogue simply wouldn't know how to deal with a crying Hawke.

And Hawke had never even considered confiding in Fenris. He was a good friend, but sometimes was a bit too harsh, and anyways, he had a hard enough time dealing with his own problems.

But Anders was the exception. Hawke knew that he would never tell anyone else anything as personal as that. It had taken some time for him to trust him enough to let his guard down around him. He had always been an independent man, never relying on others for anything, because he knew when you did that people only failed you. But even him, the evasive, cheeky rogue, needed someone for support now and again, and as the last of his family slowly perished by his hands, he found he was alone and in need of someone. And Anders was there.

Anders had cried in front of Hawke once. Only once. It was after he had nearly killed that girl on the mountain a while back. He had felt like a monster for it, and had started to believe the cruel words of the elf. He turned away from Hawke when he came to visit him, but that stubborn man refused to leave. And at the end of an hour he had Anders smiling and laughing again.

Any intimate conversations between the two were quickly forgotten and neither spoke of them again. Which was fine by both. There was no need to drag up the past.

After more time had passed, Hawke's breathing slowed, and Anders finally pulled away from him, holding him at arms length. He looked sadly at his friend's face, which was swollen and red from tears. He was blinking heavily, and had nearly fallen asleep in Anders' arms.

"You should get some sleep now," the mage suggested, breaking the long, deep silence. His voice cracked from disuse and he realised he probably had been here for much longer than he thought. His feather pads were soaked with tears, but this time he didn't care.

Hawke merely shrugged indifferently and shivered at the loss of heat from Anders' body.

Anders stood up and stretched before helping Hawke back down onto the mattress. He pulled the blanket over his body, threw another log on the fire, extinguished the light from the wall lamp, grabbed his staff, and headed for the door.

He paused as his hand rested on the knob and looked behind him at Hawke who was laying on his back staring at the ceiling.

It was strange, he thought. Only a little while before (or hours, he didn't really know) he was standing in this exact spot watching Hawke in the same position. The situation had been the same, but the condition was so very different. It felt like a distant memory now.

"Goodnight, Hawke," he whispered, and he stood there for a moment waiting for a response.

Hawke considered asking Anders to stay with him, but he knew the mage needed sleep. He had probably been just as worn out and perhaps more exhausted than he himself was. So he said nothing.

When the mage received no response he opened the door and nodded to his friend before walking out.

That night both men cried into their pillows and heard each other's keening.


End file.
